


I'm not a serial killer, I'm a high-fuctioning werewolf, do your research

by Shayne_The_Archangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayne_The_Archangel/pseuds/Shayne_The_Archangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a problem. <br/>He has to deal with it every month, and what's worse is he's doing it right under the best detective in the world's nose. This detective also happens to be his friend. It's only a matter a time before the Beast is discovered by the Freak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summary of A Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'd just like to point out that this is, in fact, my first story, and so I'm very sorry if it is very crappy. I wrote this in my spare time, because:  
> A. I have nothing better to do, and  
> B. I don't really have an actual life
> 
> But, enough with that. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a very big secret. He's hiding it from one of the best detectives in the world. Also, this detective happens to be his friend and flatmate. It's only a matter of time until the Beast is discovered by the Freak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter! Yay!  
> I just wanted to mention that you can suggest plot lines for this story. I have some really good ideas for it, but if you want it to go somewhere, just tell me and I'll write it down in my mind palace. Enjoy!

"Where are you going?"

John stopped in the doorway and turned around.

"I'm going out for a walk." He replied with a sigh, checking his pocket for his phone.

"Did I piss you off again?" Sherlock asked. John looked at his face. _He's actually concerned,_ John thought. He sighed again.

"No, I'm just bored, and I need some air."

Before Sherlock could further his inquiry, John slammed the door closed and ran down the steps and out the door. He called for a taxi, which took much longer than when Sherlock called one.  _Because he runs out into the street like a lunatic._ John shook his head and climbed in.

"Dorset." He said. The cab driver gave him a confused look in the rear-view mirror, then shook his head.

"...'Kay, mate." The cab pulled out into the street and began the long drive. 

After two hours and twenty five minutes, the cab pulled over. John pulled out his wallet.

"How much?" He asked. The man raised his eyebrows.

"481.77 pounds, mate." The replied sceptically.

The cabbie's jaw dropped when John pulled out that exact amount from his wallet, tied together with a rubber band.

"Bloody Hell!" The man breathed, gaping at the wad of money in John's hands. John rolled his eyes.

"Have a nice night." He said bluntly.

John stepped out into the dark town of Dorset. He looked down at his watch. It was 9:30.

John gulped. 

_I'm running out of time._

John looked at a nearby street sign. It read 'William J Day Boulevard'. He let out a breath of relief, then began running down the street. After about 300 ft, John turned onto a street called 'Mt. Vernon Street' and stopped in front of a scrunched up building with a sign that said 'Antelope Walk' hanging above the door. He looked around. The dim street lights reflected off the cramped buildings and squinting windows. All kinds of assorted things were seen through the grimy windows, even though they were darkened by the absence of light.

Not a person was in sight. John straightened up and turned back to the door, opening it swiftly as he stepped inside, and closed it behind him. To a regular person's eyes, it would have been pitch black, with unseeable objects surrounding them as they tiptoed helplessly around like upended moles. 

But not John Watson.

He could see every detail of the aged wood paneling; every dust mote floating through the air; every seam of the cloths covering the tables. He easily wove his way, silently and swiftly, through the Victorian-style rooms. This was because he was not a regular person.

While he did usually live an average life, with his oatmeal jumpers and Earl Gray tea, John Watson was - in fact -anything but regular. This was the reason why he had paid 500 pounds to drive out into the middle of a strange town in the middle of nowhere. This was the reason why he was walking through a deserted townhouse at 10:00 at night. This was the reason why he was opening a door and walking down stone steps to a dark, dank web of tunnels.

These tunnels were vast, made of worn stone and crumbling brick, and were held up with concrete pillars made of the same material.

People used to come here because they thought there were ghosts haunting the tunnels, and their beliefs were well proven. Even John thought it looked like something out of a Stephen King novel. But it didn't scare John anymore. He had spent many a night here in the tunnels, hoping the Beast wouldn't escape.

You see, that was John's problem. The one that made him irregular. The Beast.

John groaned, grabbing his now throbbing head.  _It's starting._

John kneeled on the smooth, dusty floor, holding himself up with his hands. His bones began to twist and shift underneath his skin, shredding his flesh and molding into something unrecognizable. John stifled a yell as his skin folded in on itself, his arms lengthening and his hands twisting into furry lumps as sharp claws tore the flesh between his knuckles. He growled as his short hair spread across the his spine and lengthened to cover his entire body. His clothes faded from existence, like magic. There was a high pitched whistling in his ears as the whole tunnel was bathed in pure white light. The was an agonized scream, and then everything went black.

~Back At Baker St.~

Sherlock laid sprawled on the sofa as he pondered his blonde flatmate's recent actions.

 _Why did he leave?_ Sherlock thought, hands positioned as if he was praying. _I didn't say anything except that we need milk, and I say that all the time._ Sherlock looked at the packet of papers on his desk. 

 _I finished my experiment weeks ago, and haven't done one since. I, quite surprisingly, haven't been complaining about the recent drop in criminal activity, which is the only other thing that would have made John take a walk._ Sherlock looked at the clock. It read 12:30.

_Good God! It's been six hours since John has been home! Where the hell is he?_

Sherlock pulled out his phone.

_Where are you? It's been six hours, and I don't remember you having a girlfriend to stay with, so unless you got a hotel, which is extremely unlikely, since you have very little money, you are wandering around London without supervision. Criminal activity has been suspiciously boring for a few months now, so I would very much like if you would tell me your whereabouts, so that I know you are not laying dead in an alley or something._

_-SH_

Sherlock hit send and waited for the impending answer.

After about ten minutes, Sherlock pulled back out his phone.

_John, if you don't answer this text within three minutes, I will resort to desperate measures of finding out what happened. I will assume the worst, and will use every power at my disposal to track you down. That includes looking at your computer, digital accounts, and your room._

_-SH_

Sherlock hit send again and sat ridged and tense, waiting for an answer.

Three minutes passed, and Sherlock instantly grabbed John's laptop and went to John's room. He picked the lock swiftly and placed the laptop on his bed. He went through his drawers, pulling out assorted jumpers and dress shirts and dropping them on the floor. When they were empty, he felt the wood surfaces. Nothing.

Sherlock scowled, then went to John's calendar. He looked at the week of today. Sherlock noticed that today, 11-21-15, was marked with a bright red dot in the bottom-right corner. Sherlock squinted at it.  _What's so special about November 21?_ He looked at the month before. 10-21-15 had the same red dot in the corner.  _Scratch that. What's so special about the 21st of every month?_

Sherlock stood up straight and went to his mind palace. He looked at October 21. He remembered... Ah, yes. He remembered fighting with John.

_"John, you need to go down to the yard. Lestrade has a level 5 case, and Molly has some leg muscles."_

_"What do you need leg muscles for?"_

_"I'm seeing which ones are more pliable and which ones are more stringy. It's for a cannibal experiment I'm doing."_

_"Okay, then. Sorry I asked. I can't go down to the yard, though. I need to do some stuff today."_

_"Why not? This is more important, and I'm too busy to do it."_

_"No, you're not, you're just sitting there, and I'm not your maid!"_

_"Only thing you're good for."_

_"..."_

_"... I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean that."_

_"Yes, you did, or else it wouldn't of been floating in your head, waiting to be said."_

_"John, I'm sorry."_

_"Sherlock, don't lie! Sod this... Goodbye, Sherlock."_

Sherlock winced at the memory. He hated it when he pissed off John, especially when it drove him out of the house. Sherlock shook his head rapidly, banning his distracting thoughts.

_On October 21, John left the flat at 7:00 and returned at approximately 4:20. Today, he left at 7:00 and has not returned. On October, he left after an argument. Today, he left randomly for no apparent reason._

Sherlock began pacing around John's room.

_So, according to the evidence, every month on the 21, John leaves at 7:00 p.m. and returns in the early morning. He leaves for reasons yet unknown. Not for money, he's to prideful to do that. Not to kill, he knows that I'd catch him. And not for a drink or casual occasion, because he doesn't know anyone at that level of acquaintance. Before I figure out the reason, I need to prove my hypothesis._

Sherlock went back to the calendar and looked through the past pages. Every single one of them had a red dot in the corner. Nodding his head in approval, he went back to pacing.

_My hypothesis is highly plausible. The proof is concrete. Now, I need to figure out why he leaves every month on the 21st._

Sherlock stopped and grabbed John's laptop, sitting down on the side of his bed. He logged in, typing in the password '2144100' into it and was granted access to John's laptop. Sherlock's mouth twitched. John would be _so_ pissed. Sherlock clicked on the search engine. He typed '21st' into the bar. He found websites about cars and 21-year-old boys. Sherlock tried 'monthly occurrence'. Charts showing the crime and economy rates of London came up. Sherlock went to the notes on John's computer. He surfed half-heartedly through them, about to 'X' out, when he spotted one that said, "The price for a ride from Bkr St. to Drst is 481.77 pounds." Sherlock frowned.

 

_Drst? What's Drst? Bkr St. must be Baker St. So, Drst must be an abbreviation for a place. A far away town, according to the price._

Sherlock ran the math through his head.

_481.77 pounds would be about three hours outside of London. If it is an abbreviation, then it must mean Dorset. What the hell does John do every month in Dorset?_

Sherlock went to the search history. He used the code word 'Dorset'. One search came up from about two years ago. 

_It's the day after he moved in._

It, in fact, was from the day that John Watson had moved into 221B Baker Street. (And cured his psychosomatic limp at the same time.)

The search was of deserted buildings in Dorset. Sherlock looked at them all throughly. He found one that had a different font color than the rest. He clicked on it.

The page changed to an article about a place called 'Ancient Dorchester Tunnels'.

The website explained that the place had been abandoned for many years and that no one ever went in there because of rumors of murders happening in the tunnels. Sherlock read the entire thing, scanning for any reason why John would go there besides something sinister or terrible. He found nothing. Sherlock looked at the computer clock. 4:17. Sherlock shut the computer, tossing it aside and went to the living room. If he was correct, John would walk through that door at about 4:20.

Sherlock had a few things to ask him.

~Back To John~

John opened his eyes, consciousness coming back to him. He stretched aching limbs out on the floor, then got up. He looked around and located the tunnel that led to the train station. He walked down it a few yards, then slipped through a dark crevice into a crowded walkway. He was washed along with a wave of flesh as people scurried to get onto the different trains. He located the London train, pushed himself into the crowd, and stepped onto the train as it warned, "Mind the gap".

~Two hours and twenty five minutes later~

John trudged off the train and began the quiet walk back to Baker Street. It was a bit cold, but John couldn't feel it. He was still used to the chill of the tunnels in Dorset. He walked a few more yards until finally reaching Baker Street. Quietly pulling out his key, he unlocked the door and walked up to the flat. He walked through the flat door and hung up his coat, not giving his surroundings a second glance. Everything was fine.

"Hello, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? I promise there will be more soon. I update as quick as I can. Please leave comments, even if they are mean, because criticism helps me improve!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! THAT many people actually LIKE my story? Awesome! That really means a lot to me.
> 
> Sorry, I'm just excited.
> 
> Here's your second chapter...

"Hello, John."

John stopped mid-step at the call of his name. He pivoted towards the direction of the voice.

"Hello, Sherlock." John said casually. He noticed Sherlock's dark mood, and jumped to the obvious conclusion.

"No cases have come up, I'm guessing?" 

"Actually, one just did." John frowned at this statement. 

"What is it? Murder?" John asked, watching Sherlock as he walked around John.

"I don't know. I'm looking into it right now." Sherlock replied as he eyed John with that inquisitive gaze he used on many people, discovering their darkest secrets. John frowned again.

"No, you're not, you're lounging in the flat." He stated, gesturing at Sherlock.

"No, John. I'm waiting."

"For what?"

"For you."

John tensed, his frown deepening.

"What do you need me for?" He asked. Sherlock stopped in front of him, hands posed at his chin as if he was praying.

"I need you for the case. Your case." Sherlock then sat in his chair, the one he sat in when he talked to clients. He gestured to the seat that the clients sat in.

"Take a seat, John."

John sighed, but took a seat anyway, not wanting to bother arguing. As soon as John sat down, Sherlock began to rattle off with the questions.

"On October 21st, at 7:00 p.m., you left this flat and, for reasons unknown, took a cab to Dorset. You stayed there all night, and returned to this flat at 4:20. Am I correct?"

John's eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Y-yes... I did..." John said, trying not to panic from shock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You've been hiding something. Especially from me." Sherlock sighed. "What could be so bad that you had to hide it from me? You know more personal things about me than my own mother."

John turned his gaze away, as if ashamed. Sherlock got up and kneeled in front of him.

"John, don't make me deduce it. I know you won't like that. Tell me what's wrong."

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He gulped.

"I..." John sighed. "Sherlock, I can't... I can't tell you. I can try to explain," John rushed as Sherlock surged upwards onto his feet. "But I can't promise you'll understand."

Sherlock studied John a moment, as if deducing whether or not he was lying. Finally, he sighed and sat back down in his chair. John shifted in his seat.

"I... I'm not..."

John stopped, considering his words.

"I'm dangerous." John said instead. "Every month, on the night of the 21st, I change. I become... Something else..." John watched as Sherlock scrunched his face in thought. "At these times, I lose control. Black out. If I wasn't careful, I could hurt someone. Or kill them..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  _HIS John? Kill someone? Please._  

"When did it start?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his thoughts. John thought for a moment.

"A few months - almost a year - before I met you." John said.

"What happened?"

John closed his eyes, as if he was watching it happen. 

"...I was walking alone, sometime around 11:00 p.m. I had been just about to turn around and go back, when I was knocked over.

"Something jumped on top of me. It growled and snarled like an animal, sniffed me like I was common meat, and then it... It almost killed me." John looked at Sherlock. "It started when that thing tore my throat out with its teeth."

Sherlock looked at John intensely for a moment. Then, he stood up and began pacing.

"...This isn't a joke, John!" He shouted, glaring at John.

"I never said it was!" John replied heatedly, hurt. "I'm not lying, Sherlock!"

"Yes, you are, you have to be! Or else that means you're-" Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing, frozen in place as realization set in. He turned to John.

"You're not... You can't be..."

"I am! What will it take to make you believe me?"

Suddenly, John groaned, grabbing his head.

"John?"

_He asked for proof,_  a voice in John's head mused. Let's _give him some._ John groaned again.

"Run..." John said. He dropped to his knees.

"Ahhhhh!"

Sherlock watched, wide eyed, as John's skin flexed and scrunched and his bones lengthened and morphed. John cried out, his back arching as his hair began to spread across the rest of his body. He looked up at Sherlock.

Suddenly, a bright white light engulfed the entire room, blinding both John and Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, right before the white light completely surrounded him and tore him from view. Sherlock closed his eyes when the light became too bright to bear, a high-pitched noise bringing Sherlock to the edge of tolerance.

Suddenly, the noise dulled to a low hum. Sherlock opened his eyes. The white light was gone. The thing that replaced it made Sherlock step back.

In the place that Sherlock's flatmate had been kneeling, was a giant - hulking - wolf.

It was about 5 feet tall, with short and groomed blonde fur. It had shiny blue eyes and a huge upright tail, swaying slowly. Sherlock studied it with his intense gaze, trying to read it.

_The tail suggests it's an alpha, and with good reason. The wolf is at least 5 feet tall. It looks like it's waiting for something._

That's when Sherlock realized what it was waiting for.

_It wants me to submit._

Sherlock looked through his mind palace for the right information. Sherlock bowed his head, lowering his gaze, and made a whining noise. He stood still and waited for the wolf to walk over. The wolf strutted over to Sherlock. It straightened its back and sniffed Sherlock's neck. Then, suddenly, it bit Sherlock's neck, lightly nipping him with its incisors. Sherlock gasped, startled, then shut his mouth quickly. The wolf let him go and backed off, not taking its gaze from Sherlock. Sherlock took a step back, recuperating. He rubbed the spot on his neck where the wolf had bit him. He let out a breath of relief at the feeling of closed skin.

The wolf whined when he did this, walking toward him. Sherlock got down to his knees, leveling himself with the wolf. It nuzzled his neck, moving his hand. Sherlock moved his hand and exposed his neck.

"What are you-" Sherlock stopped, shuddering at the feeling of something warm and wet brushing across the bitten part of his neck. When the wolf was done, it nuzzled the mark, then backed away, looking at Sherlock.

"Did you just... Clean my wound?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed. The wolf barked, then scrunched its face, as if annoyed. Sherlock smiled.

"Cat got your tongue?"  He teased.

The wolf narrowed its eyes at Sherlock. Then, it scuffed the back of Sherlock's head with its paw. Sherlock cried out in dismay. The wolf lolled its tongue, wagging its tail. Then, it looked at the door. It grabbed Sherlock's sleeve in its mouth and pulled him toward it. Sherlock followed, intrigued. The wolf pawed at the door, then nuzzled Sherlock's hand. Sherlock understood this to mean ' _Open the door.'_

Sherlock obliged, and the wolf stepped out. It tugged on Sherlock's sleeve again, then walked up the stairs. Sherlock followed it to the door to John's room. It pawed at the door. Sherlock unlocked the door and opened it. The wolf padded inside and shut the door with its muzzle. Sherlock stood in front of the door, listening. There was a shuffling noise, like walking, then a yelp, like the wolf was in pain. Sherlock was worried, and was about to open the door, when it opened itself.

John stood in the doorway, rubbing his neck.

"Believe me now?" He said quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"After that presentation, if I didn't believe you, I would have to be more incompetent than Anderson."

John laughed softly, shaking his head.

"That's not the reaction I was expecting." He said quietly.

"What were you expecting?" Sherlock asked.

John bit his lip.

"Something happened last time."

"What happened last time?"

John sighed. 

"Later... I'll tell you later."

Sherlock frowned, and John thought he might disagree, but instead, Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. Later." He agreed. John rolled his eyes.

"You already figured it out, didn't you?"

"... Maybe..."

John sighed.

"Whatever. I don't want to talk about it right now. Can we just go back to the flat and find a case or something?"

Sherlock turned around and started walking back. John followed a few steps behind.

_He'll bring it up again,_ the voice in John's head said again.  _You can't stop a curious Sherlock Holmes._

"I know." John whispered under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that as awful as I thought it was? 
> 
> I have some vague ideas for this story, but if you have a good idea, tell me. Recommendations are always welcome.


	3. The Science of Lycanthropy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock basically does what every scientist does. Experiments.

Everything was fine at first.

 

Sherlock was acting normal, pacing in the flat and playing his violin, and John drank his tea and read his blog posts. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

 

Then Sherlock went too far.

 --------------------------------------------------------------

The first time, John had been going to get some breakfast, and he'd found pounds of meat sitting in the fridge. He'd almost eaten them, too! Even though the human side of him knew very well that the meat was likely riddled with parasites and diseases.

 

Then, there was that other time, when Sherlock had had John wear a silver ring for three days, just to see if it had any affects on John. For the record, it didn't.

 

Or, when Sherlock had somehow gotten a wolf into John's bedroom, to see how he'd react then. It hadn't been pretty, let's just say that.

 

But none of those made John finally snap.

 --------------------------------------------------------------

John woke up instantly to the smell of copper.

He got out of bed without thinking and went to his door. He opened it and found a bucket out on the floor, filled with liquid.

Before he could stop himself, or really think about what he was doing, John got down on his knees in front of the bucket and started drinking from it.

The liquid was thick and earthy, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. It reminded him of the raw meat from the fridge.

John's mind finally caught up with his body. He finally realized what it was. It was blood.

Not that John could bring himself to care, let alone stop. He felt like he was in a haze, and his sanity was drowning in the surreal bliss of it.

_"John!"_

A voice suddenly pulled him out of the haze. He looked up and was surprised to see Sherlock standing above him.

Sherlock looked shocked.

"John, what are you doing?!"

John looked down at himself.

He was a mess. Covered in blood, his front soaked in it; droplets of blood dripping down his jaw along with ravenous drool.

John's eyes widened, and he looked back up at Sherlock.

"W-Why was this out here?" He stammered.

"I left it out to see what your wolf would do, but... I didn't expect you to drink it all!" Sherlock said. He eyed John's mouth oddly.

"Wh-what?" John stammered.

"Your teeth." Sherlock responded. "They've... They've grown."

"What do you mean?"

Your canines, John. They look a few centimeters longer."

John looked down into his reflection in the blood and bared his teeth.

Sure enough, when he did this, he saw huge canines in his mouth where his minuscule teeth should be. The ones he had now would fit far better on a predator.

_Like a wolf._ John thought offhandedly. He shut his eyes and growled angrily through his teeth. 

_How dare Sherlock do such a thing? **Experiment** on me? One of us could've gotten hurt!_

" _John!_ "

John opened his eyes at the strangled cry. He hand had somehow pinned Sherlock to the wall, a tight hand on his throat. However, much like with the blood, John couldn't stop.

" _If you ever try something like this again, I'll rip out your throat!_ ", snarled a deep, unfamiliar voice. 

No. Not unfamiliar. 

John jumped away from Sherlock, eyes wide. 

"John-" Sherlock started, reaching out. John hit his hand away and bolted, slamming his door behind him. John felt his bones shifting under his too-tight skin.

_Bloody freaking brilliant._


	4. Another Pawn in the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new addition to the lycanthrope family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to apologize for going on hiatus almost as long as 'Sherlock' itself.
> 
> *Hangs head in shame*

John had had enough.

 

It had been no more than two weeks after the 'bucket of blood' incident, and Sherlock was obviously hiding from John. Whenever John walked into the room, Sherlock would walk straight out. Instead of forgetting about John, Sherlock would actually deliberately leave John out of every case. He had even completely stopped all conversation with John, including random texts of " _we need milk"_. 

John had decided on confronting Sherlock. It may seem like a desperate measure, but with Sherlock, if it wasn't desperate or dramatic, it wasn't worth his time.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

John paced in the living room, waiting impatiently for Sherlock to walk in the door.

Sherlock had went on a case today, and what with it being barely a '4', Sherlock would be home before noon. Sherlock had always claimed to never go out for anything less than a '7', but when John had asked, Sherlock had said it had an "attractive pull."

 _Of course_ , _it does_ , John thought bitterly. _I'm not there_.

John stopped his pacing at the sound of a slamming door. His mind raced in apprehension.

He suddenly felt different. He noticed his sight and smell seemed... sharper.

He looked down at his hands; Long, claw-like nails were on each finger. 

Hearing loud footsteps outside, John instinctively jumped into the blind spot of the door. As soon as someone stepped inside, John slammed them into the wall.

"Jesus Christ!" The person cried in shock. "John?! Get off me!"

John stared into the man's brown eyes, assessing them. Before he knew it, he had his nose buried in the man's neck.

"Bloody Hell!" The man said, dismayed. John didn’t care. He was too busy processing the smell that his brain knew without thinking.

"You're like me." John reported to the man. "You're a wolf, too."

He frowned at himself.

_What?_

When John’s brain came to, he let the man go, and stepped back. He realized the grayscale hair and black overcoat were familiar, and gaped at the man.

"... _Greg?!_ "

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, again! If you liked it, leave a kudo or post a comment, because if you don't, I won't know if you liked it, and I very much like hearing other people's opinions. (I don't bite.)


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